Uncommon
by Alyioop
Summary: Even as a boy, he was manipulative and frightening, but Tom Riddle was also fascinating... and Hermione finds herself drawn to the man she knows becomes the monster. [Time-travel;Bite-sized chapters]
1. One

**Author Warning:** This story will be compromised of bite-sized chapters. Some will be longer than others, but none of them will be horribly long. The chapters will not flow seamlessly from one moment to the next - I will jump from one significant moment to another. This method of story-telling can be annoying, I know; however, I hope you find my characterization and fluff of an unusual relationship to be worth it.

* * *

For Hermione Granger, the moment that begun her association with Tom Riddle was one where he wasn't even there...

It was an accident.

One moment she was in 1998, as safe and as happy as someone struggling to defeat a Dark Lord could be, and the next she was gone. There was nothingness, terrifying, like death, and then she was back again in an empty classroom.

It was a complete accident.

Someone tripped while carrying a potion while she'd been walking back to her desk in the opposite direction. She'd been covered in blue, sticky liquid and their cauldron had knocked up against her chest... shattering two of Hermiones most prized possessions: a single vial of Felix Felicis and her Timeturner.

It was a fluke, really.

An unfortunate mixing of magic and a dash of luck had found Hermione Granger back in time, transported back before her own birth. She was _lost_ , because there was _no_ way to go forward in time – many wizards smarter than she had tried to move forward with no success.

Hermione enrolled herself back into Hogwarts, learned about the era she was now a reluctant part of, and resolved to find a way back to her own time.

There was no war here. There were no friends or family here. There was no copy of herself to avoid. She was free to live peacefully while she tried to get home; except, of course, for the fact that a young Tom Riddle was still puttering around... that wouldn't matter, she wouldn't call attention to herself... the whole thing was surreal enough that she somehow convinced herself that she'd probably never cross paths with him, anyway.


	2. Two

For Tom Riddle, the moment that begun his association with Hermione Granger was one he would later struggle to recall at all...

It was the start of term feast.

Tom was glad to be back and impatient for the feast to begin. He'd had _disgusting_ food all summer, fed to him by _disgusting_ people, and was impossibly eager for the abundance of food he otherwise was deprived from eating. He'd probably eat ham, first, with chocolate pudding for dessert.

To his right sat Dolohov, who had been showing off to him a new spell that created painful boils he'd mastered on the train ride, and was preening under the praise that _he_ was seated on the right. It was meant to be a symbol of his favor and it worked like a charm – the fools fought over a scrap of his regard like dogs fighting over a bone.

"Never gotten a transfer student before," commented Dolohov, lip curling as he added, "Probably a mudblood with that name."

Alphard Black, a fifth year that only lingered on the edge of his group, quietly said, "She's pretty."

No one paid him any attention. He was the baby of the Black family and was treated as such, especially since his family was more out-spoken than he was. Still, Tom had heard his comment and looked up, deciding to see for himself.

The girl was easy to spot as she padded up to the stool in the front of the room.

Bushy-haired and slender was all he could tell until she turned to sit. Beneath her mane of hair, she had a passably pretty face. She didn't look as if she put any great effort into her appearance, though he didn't get long to study it – the moment she lifted the hat up over her head it shouted, "GYFFINDOR!"

She smiled, wide and pleased.

"Great, a brave mudblood," sneered the thin-faced boy seated across from him, Montgomery Avery.

"Shut up, fools, you'll be overheard," Tom finally addressed their flippant attitudes, clapping politely all the while.


	3. Three

Being in the 1940s was blindingly different than being in her own time.

The only constant from one time to the other was Hogwarts castle itself – it was almost as if she'd been dropped into another dimension. She may pass the same paintings and the same ghosts, but the students she'd went to school with for years were now replaced by aliens, some of them eerily similar to their future descendants.

In her year alone there was another Potter and a Longbottom. Although neither of them were carbon copies of their grandchildren, Hermione could spot tiny similarities in both looks and personality. It was enough to make her uneasy about befriending her new classmates – she didn't want to replace her old friends, especially not with their grandparents.

If the people weren't enough, then Hermione also stood out like a sore thumb.

Her hair was too bushy and wild.

She wore slacks in place of skirts.

Several people had overheard her telling a professor that Household Charms was barbaric.

Hermione didn't _mind_ being an oddity, really, because that was how it had always been for her. Too forward-thinking, too-intelligent, too _everything_... She settled into the same role in this time as she had in her own time, only without the support of two well-meaning best friends.

Although she did try to dial back her urge to answer every question for the sake of keeping a low profile in the classes she shared with Tom Riddle, Hermione wasn't worried that he would be concerned about some girl who was, as Snape said, an insufferable know it all.

It was so peaceful in this time – lonely, too, not that it mattered – that she foolishly lost more and more of her reserve each day. Speaking up more in class. Flaunting her intelligence. Tutoring a few classmates. She became complacent in her loneliness; if she hadn't, then she might not have ever caught Tom Riddles attention.


	4. Four

He had never met his equal and suspected he never would.

Tom Riddle knew perfectly well that he was more brilliant, more gifted, and more cunning than his peers. Teachers praised him constantly, struggling to teach him something he didn't master in the space of the lesson. At times, he could see the trepidation in their eyes as they realized that his skill was already beyond their own, even as a student. He enjoyed the flicker of surprise and fear that came with that realization.

As he watched, eyes half-lidded in boredom, for someone to answer the question that the Dumbledore had asked, Tom wondered if anyone even could. It wasn't anything difficult, but he made a point of not trying too hard in Transfiguration. For some reason, Dumbledore was the only one who ever seemed to look straight through him. Tom highly suspected that he used Legilimency, so had mastered Occlumency to spite him. It was unknown how effective this was, however, as he had no one capable of testing his defenses. Legilimency was harder to master, but he had a natural inclination to it, easily delving into others minds, and was now only working to be more precise with it.

"Miss Granger, yes?"

Dumbledore was calling on the transfer student who, after several long moments looking around her at the others, had cautiously raised her hand. The hesitancy was amusing – Tom wondered if her guess was even going to come close to the right answer.

"Untransfiguration is, as the name sounds, the art of transfiguring something already transfigured back into its original state. Being both a spell and a counter-curse, it's one of the hardest branches of Transfiguration to master, alongside Conjuration," the bushy-haired girl recited, sounding much as if she'd swallowed those words and were now throwing them back up.

The professor beamed, eyes twinkling merrily, and awarded her ten points.

Tom, who was mildly surprised, recalled that her name was Hermione. She looked wholly unremarkable, what with her face a bit plain and her robes hanging drably around her. As he appraised her, she fidgeted in her chair and nervously glanced around. She looked like she expected others to pick on her for having answered the question – perhaps it had been like that where she'd come from.

In one of her glances, she got caught in his gaze. Her eyes widened and her lips parted, which was a very common response to his appraisal. Tom smiled the smile that made nearly everyone relax, the one that made their guards lower, but was met with a peculiar response.

The girl – _Hermione,_ he reminded himself – frowned nearly imperceptibly and immediately turned her head back to her notes. That made two surprising things regarding her in the space of only a few minutes, which Tom found unusual. He was a good judge of character and others, well, he found others to be very easily manipulated... He tested her mind, ignoring the way her back went ramrod straight as if aware of his intrusion, and found it opaque.

Curious. Tom decided that he would keep an eye on her. Some minds were easier than others, but not being able to see anything was much rarer. Perhaps, as he refined his skill, she would make a good benchmark as to his progress. She wouldn't be able to keep him out for long; Tom promised himself that.

For now, he turned back to Dumbledore and pretended to listen attentively.


	5. Five

"Some of you are quite good at dueling, but others... others needs practice. One of you is new to me, which means perhaps a demonstration is in order!" Professor Merrymought declared on Hermiones first day in Defense Against the Dark Arts class.

The Professor looked at her with a gentle smile that was probably meant to calm her nerves. As Hermione got up she kept her eyes on her teacher, resisting the urge to seek out Riddle. He was sitting two rows ahead of her and one seat to the left – not that she'd been paying him _too_ much attention.

Heart fluttering in her chest, Hermione nearly missed being asked a question.

Stammering, she replied, "I- I can hold my own," not wanting to overestimate herself in front of a classroom of people. She knew she was pretty good – she'd had plenty of first hand battle practice.

"Wonderful. Now any volun- Oh, Tom?" Professor Merrymought seemed reluctant to agree, which she would have thought strange if she hadn't known that the young man was an excellent duelist. "Alright, then. Tom is our best duelist, so don't be surprised if you find him quite a challenge."

The two duelists proceeded to the front of the classroom. It wasn't as big of an area as Hermione would have preferred to fight in, but it wasn't as if she could ask for more space. Her classmates backed away as if well aware that they wouldn't want to be near them and were huddled fairly close together in the corner – Professor Merrymought prepared a powerful shield charm to protect them as they watched. She wondered if this was standard when a duel went on or if they'd become familiar with the necessary precautions when _Riddle_ dueled.

Having a good reason now to look at Tom, Hermione was immediately intimidated by what she saw.

She hadn't been close enough to realize how _tall_ he was yet. He had to be at least a head taller than she was and, although the fight wasn't physical, it was still unnerving to be against an opponent capable of overpowering you. It wasn't just that his height, either. He moved with confidence and grace; he looked bored of her already... it was kind of maddening. Perhaps that was the point.

While she stood to bow, facing him full on, Hermione noticed that he kept his body at an angle as he did so. Presenting a smaller target, she realized, feeling silly for having to adjust her body to mirror his.

Tom wasted no time, flicking his wand the moment they'd straightened.

Hermione blocked it, the red rush of light coming closer than she'd have liked.

It was just a simple disarming spell, but she felt her heart begin to pound and her senses heighten as if she were on the battlefield again. While it was hard to associate the haughty, handsome boy with the snake-faced Lord Voldemort, Hermione still felt herself going into fight or flight mode.

Lazily, he flicked his wand again. A jet of blue light flew towards her – the tickling hex – followed closely by another disarming spell.

She waved the first off and shifted slightly so that the second missed, crying out as she did so, " _Bombarda!"_

The table to the right of Tom exploded, showering him with debris, and Hermione followed her first spell with a silent _Expelliermous,_ which he batted away like a cat presented with a string. She was pleased to see that his eyes had narrowed though... He no longer looked bored.

Tom sent a flurry of spells at her, flashing all different colors, and suddenly Hermione found herself in a very dangerous dance. It was all she could do to block his rapid-fire spells, coming at her too quickly for her to identify.

Shield that one. Dodge this one. Duck another. Block the next.

Try as she might, throwing spells as she ducked and weaved away, she was too busy avoiding getting hit to ever be able to aim correctly. In fact, she noticed with horror that he was getting closer to her than before, backing her into a corner as if herding sheep.

Hermione felt distinctly out of her league. She had _thought_ she was pretty good, but this was clearly beyond her level. Defense had been her weakest subject, though she'd figured her hours of practice in actual fights would have made her better than this.

The longer she fended him off, the more aggressive he seemed to become. She hadn't thought he could cast any faster than he had been, but she had been wrong. In some cases, he begun to say the incantation aloud, his voice rough with passion... allowing her to realize that some of the spells she was dodging could be quite painful to be hit with... at least one she recognized as being just this side of the Dark Arts.

" _Incarerous!"_ She cried, desperate to slow him down.

To her horror, he twisted his wand and jabbed. Somehow, it sent the ropes flying back at her, giving her the choice to be hit by them or throw herself out of the way to be hit by something else. Hermione flung herself to the side, feeling a jet of red light hit her with enough force to send her flying back into the wall... and her wand jerked free of her grip, soaring into his outstretched hand.

Hermione got to her feet, still expecting to be bombarded with spells. Her head was aching from having hit the wall and she could feel a cut on her forehead was beginning to drip blood down her face – still, she faced him panting and glaring, magic cackling around her as she tried her hardest to wandlessly summon her wand back to her, and feeling as wild as a cornered lion would.

Though it failed, she could see Tom tighten his grip on the wand.

"Goodness!" Professor Merrymought cried, clapping her hands and rushing forward. "You two put on quite a show! Tom, your dueling is memorizing to watch... and Hermione, I've never seen someone put up such a fight against our dear Head Boy. Twenty points to Slytherin and ten to Gryffindor."

The other students swarmed them, excitedly commenting on the spectacle. A few of the comments even sounded like they were impressed with her, as well, and she wondered how many of them had been unfortunate enough to be up against him in the past.

Tom smiled boyishly, modestly batting away the compliment. "Oh, I'm still an amateur yet. Miss Granger was most impressive as well... perhaps I should walk her to the Hospital Wing, just in case of a concussion?"

The professor couldn't have beamed at him any larger than she did and Hermione wished she could be more annoyed about it. Really, how could she blame her for believing his acting? The boy was a phenomenal actor – just the right amount of concern, the right amount of flattery, the right amount of modesty... he was the picture perfect Head Boy, a real gentleman.

"Come along," Tom instructed her, firm in his demand but somehow still friendly.

Hermione complied instantly, kicking herself at how natural it felt to follow him. He radiated confidence. He hadn't even turned back to see if she'd followed, just stalked out the door as if he knew she would be right behind him. It was pompous, but here she was, picking up her pace to match his longer strides.

She said nothing, feeling uneasy to be alone with him.

Tom clearly felt fine because he remarked, "You're quite a good duelist. Homeschooled, were you?"

"Yes," she answered shortly. Her throat closed up, knowing the point he was attempting to get at.

"A tutor, then, or your parents?"

"Tutors," Hermione replied, risking a look at his face.

He looked thoughtful, glancing down at her with calculating eyes and murmuring, "Your schooling doesn't seem like it would produce that level of proficiency."

Hermione blinked, realizing she'd been both called out on her lie and insulted all at once. Feeling her temper swell, she hotly retorted, "Yes, well, _your_ level of proficiency suggests you must think you'll be needing to defend yourself quite often."

"Now, now, don't be sore that someone bested you," Tom taunted, smirking.

She scowled at his expression, wanting to mock him back or perhaps yell at him, but stopped by the knowledge that this was a wizard who had just clearly proven his superiority in dueling. As much as she wanted, this wasn't someone with whom she could lose her temper.

"Cat got your tongue?"

"You're a sore winner, you know," Hermione finally retorted.

Tom snorted, recognizing her reply for what it was: she was a sore loser. The breathy noise made Hermione whip her head up to stare at him. His amusement with her antics was so genuinely unbelievable that she clammed up entirely, half-scared that his reaction was a prelude to some horrible curse.

When he finally left her to be treated, she was still quiet, lost in thought. Had his amusement been part of his facade or had he truly been amused? Neither option was very comforting.


	6. Six

Tom recalled his duel with Hermione Granger, weeks later, as he had often since it'd happened.

The word desire was not one he often used in conjunction with another person. Nearly every female he'd encountered was unappealing for one reason or another and the idea of someone having something he wanted wasn't a pleasant thought, regardless.

Sleek hair, plump lips, sultry eyes... Tom had occasionally spared girls a glance now and again. Several of them he'd thought of as attractive, but now he was rethinking the definition. Now, in fact, he was thinking that what he'd felt at the end of that duel had been the attraction that so many of his housemates went on about.

Hermione Granger had looked _radiant._ Powerful. Wild. Attractive.

Her hair had been as frizzy as ever, her eyes flashing like a trapped animals, her lip curled in anger... and the little minx had been pooling her magic, making it sizzle in the air around her, and had attempted to use wandless magic on him, even after the duel had been over.

He was sure he'd never felt as attracted to someone as he had in that one moment. Recalling the image of her like that made him uncomfortable and irritated, knowing the sharp pulse of basest desire that stabbed through him was an intolerable weakness.

This girl who managed to have him wasting precious moments thinking of her... Hermione Granger was a mystery he intended to solve.


	7. Seven

The duel in Defense had resulted in some unintended consequences for Hermione.

At first, she hadn't been aware of the changes, but gradually she began to realize that there was a subtle _shift_ in the future Dark Wizards regard for her.

One morning at breakfast, Hermione felt the uncomfortable sensation of being watched. She scanned the hall, berating herself for being paranoid, only to be caught in the gaze of Tom Riddle. He watched her with a cold, detached look and, when she didn't look away, rose an eyebrow at her, as if to ask what she was even doing. Hermione had blinked back at him in dismay, too stunned to do anything else.

In class, when she spoke, Tom listened.

Hermione could tell he was listening because he would turn to look at her whenever she spoke.

Then, of course, there was the library. The table she preferred to study at happened to be the same table he seemed to prefer – he had discovered her there one day and promptly sat himself there as well, and now they sat together nearly everyday. No one else ever joined them.

The most disconcerting were his little comments. They were friendly. Or they weren't. Sometimes, he would read something she wrote and point out if he saw a mistake. Other times he'd be walking past her and make a scathing remark about her hair. Once, she'd seen him cast a simple jinx at one of his own friends and, noticing her watching, had winked at her, as if it were their secret.

Hermione didn't know what to make of his ever-changing attitude. There were times when she thought he was putting on an act of friendship to lure her in, but then he'd give her a haughty stare that spelled danger and she'd be sure he was openly out to get her.

If this were manipulation, then she wasn't sure what his end goal was. What exactly was he trying to get out her? Sometimes, she got the sneaking suspicion that he didn't know the answer to that, either.


	8. Eight

"Centaurs are as intelligent as you or I!"

"Creatures bound by their instincts, similar to dogs or cats," Tom scoffed. "If they were as intelligent, then their society wouldn't consist of running around the forest relying on wizards and witches to hide their existence from the Muggles."

"None of this has any impact on the fact that they deserve more rights than they have currently. They're treated like _animals."_

"They _are_ animals," the boy returned. "They don't even want to join society – it's as futile to argue as your House Elf nonsense."

Slughorn enjoyed the arguments enough that he allowed his two best students to debate passionately and often loudly as they brewed their potions... it never affected their work, after all. The other students seemed to get some amusement out of it as well, although it seemed an unspoken rule that only Tom and Hermione were to participate.

Tom indulged her arguments and spurred them on, his expression of rapt interest an altogether disconcerting look for the young man. Hermione, for her part, challenged Tom in a way that Slughorn that never seen another student even attempt to do, and her indignant glare was not without admiration.

If he were a betting man – and he certainly was known to be, on occasion – then Slughorn would have said that there was something of a spark between them.


	9. Nine

As she often did, Hermione felt the back of her neck prickle with the sensation of being watched.

She sat near the front of Transfiguration on purpose, eager to be taught by a wizard whom she knew to be more than formidable, and paid Professor Dumbledore even more attention than she did anyone else. Any observer would have simply thought this to be her favorite subject, but Hermione held these stolen classes as extra time with a man already gone.

Quick as a cat, she spared a single, withering glare towards her watcher.

Did he not have anything better to do? Did he really disregard _this_ Professor so easily?

Though meant to be a pointed look, Hermione found her eyes snagged by the smirk on Tom Riddles' admittedly attractive face. He had classic good looks. That smirk suggested devilish things. Mostly, Hermione was caught by the fervor that sometimes shone in his eyes – she thought this was his inner madness leaking out, unable to be contained.

Today, his eyes danced so madly that she got goosebumps.

Her head snapped back around. Dumbledore, having noticed her distraction, said nothing but gave her a knowingly disappointed look... it made Hermione feel awful and, for the remainder of class, she very pointedly did not look back at the Head Boy.

Even not looking, Hermione could still feel the sensation of being watched. It did not let up even when they practiced a complex transfiguration spell. It did not let up even when the smooth baritone of Tom rang out the answer to a question Dumbledore hadn't really asked.

When class was dismissed, she puttered around until everyone had left before gathering her things to go. The feeling had faded, finally, and her shoulders slumped in relief. That is, until she rounded the corner and stopped dead. Tom Riddle blocked her path for a long moment, their eyes connected, and then strode confidently around her.

As if caught in his orbit, Hermione found herself turning and half-jogging to catch up to him.


	10. Ten

There she was again, at his table.

Everyone else knew that Tom preferred the table nearest the Restricted Section. Even the first years were told or warned at some point, because they steered clear. The only one who didn't was the girl currently seated there – she had been told, Tom knew, and she choose to sit there regardless.

To her credit, she was always immersed in writing her assignments or reading some volume thicker than her wrist. Most of the time, he found himself becoming interested in the book she'd chosen. He'd noticed that she studied topics far beyond the scope of what they were learning in class... much in the same way he did, seeming to want to know the theory and the method behind the magic.

The cover of her book this day said, "Time Travel; Methodology and Practicality."

Often, she would shoot him a polite smile as he approached. Sometimes, she would genially inquire on the assignment he was working on. Today, however, she was so engrossed in her reading that she didn't notice him approach, set his books down, and seat himself squarely across from her.

Time was so fickle. He had hardly had any use for it. At least, not yet. Ironically, there weren't enough hours in the day to keep up with classes, cultivate his little _group_ , and study any more recreational topics. At any rate, living forever negated the need to bother with reversing time. If he never died, then he'd have all the time in the world. Still, he wondered what methods the book entailed and what about the topic drew her to it.

Unbidden, he found himself asking, "What rule-abiding Gryffindor studies time travel?"

"You're one to talk," she replied, setting the book down to give him her attention.

"What do you mean?" Tom pretended to look puzzled. He almost didn't have to pretend; the way she looked through him was reminiscent of Dumbledore.

Hermione gestured to one of his books, arching a brow and giving him a knowing smile. He hated the expression instantly.

Thinking back to one of their debates from Potions class, Tom softly opined, "Magic itself is neither light nor dark."

"The intent is all that matters, " she finished for him, nodding. "I agree."

Their agreement on anything seemed to unsettle her, for she gave him a long, troubled stare. When he returned her gaze, she fidgeted and finally mumbled an excuse to leave... something she hadn't done before. Anyone _but_ her could be run off by a dangerous glance from him. _She_ was the exception. Except, apparently, when she wasn't.

Tom felt a peculiar sense of disappointment in that thought.


	11. Eleven

She stared at a boy who would go on to become so terrifying that no one dared speak his chosen name.

Around her, quills scratched at parchment and Merrymought lectured, but Hermione had been swept away in her thoughts. Despite what anyone thought, it _did_ happen on occasion.

Hermione was possessed by the thought that she rather liked the name Tom Riddle.

Nothing about the boy named Tom was ordinary. He stood out in every way, too intelligent, too handsome, too clever, too ambitious. An ordinary name for an extraordinary boy – yet Hermione thought that if anyone could take the name Tom and make it a name everyone in the world would know as _his_ , then it was Tom Riddle. If he had wanted to, then she thought he could have made the world fear a name so ordinary as Tom. If he had wanted to, then he could have achieved anything he set his mind to. That was the amount of potential he had.

Yet, she knew, he would waste his potential. He would become a madman.

It was strange, too, that the thought of that made Hermione frown in displeasure because... no matter what he would one day do... she wondered what he would have achieved had his path gone another way.

The seeds of an idea formed along these thoughts, small and gentle, so innocent that Hermione did not recognize that she'd even had an idea. The first seed was just a fleeting pondering: _What would have changed him?_

Tom looked backwards just then, as she pondered, and their eyes clashed.

He smirked.

She frowned.


	12. Twelve

Tom sat ahead of her in his class. He did not take notes, but listened attentively, his back straight and his right hand slowly drumming at the tabletop. His attractiveness would have increased tenfold if not for his perfectly studious image – the boy played a nearly over-eager student. It was unnatural. It was slightly off-putting even to Hermione who, admittedly, came off the same way. Still, she knew he was fairly popular with the girls... she'd heard a few whispers and giggles over his devilish looks.

As loathe as she was to admit it, Hermione _did_ find his looks hard to ignore.

Worse than that, Hermione found his wicked cleverness even _harder_ to look past.

She'd even found that the Dark Lord had quirks – _quirks! -_ which was an undeniably disturbing realization. One of them was that provoking way he'd drum his hand on the table the entire lesson. Hermione found it to be one of the most irritating things she'd ever encountered.

"Distracted?" whispered her table-mate, a fellow Gryffindor who had noticed her gaze.

"I could focus better with a bit less noise-making, that's all," Hermione explained, half-truthful, her own whisper just loud enough to carry to the future Dark Lord. Ahead of her, he abruptly ceased his steady drumming and stiffened: he'd heard her.

She waited with bated breath for his reaction. Would he stop? Turn and glare? Curse her?

After a moment of anticipation, Tom resumed an even slower and louder drumbeat, each tap making her eye twitch.


	13. Thirteeen

Rain drizzled down, darkening the sky and putting most students in a foul mood for a Saturday morning. Brooms had to be stowed. The sun wasn't shining. Hogsmede was only available if one was willing to brave the downpour. Most students had taken to their common rooms for relaxation.

Hermione, however, was not most students.

In the melancholy, she had found solace on a large windowed alcove halfway up the deserted Astronomy tower. She curled herself up and stared out onto the barely visible grounds. With the pitter-patter of rain beating its song against the castle, Hermione could pretend she was at home... that Luna was wandering about chasing imaginary creatures that only came out when it stormed... that Ginny was laughing in the common room with the twins... that Harry and Ron were braving the weather...

"Something the matter?"

Hermione frowned, unprepared to see Tom staring down at her.

She bit back the question of why he wanted to know and instead said, "No."

His gaze was unreadable, cold and flat, devoid of anything. After only a brief pause, he continued making his way up the stairs past her, breezily retorting, "Suit yourself."

"I just miss home," Hermione told his retreating back, watching him stop mid-step at her parting words.

Tom climbed another couple of steps as if prepared to ignore her statement, then paused. "Say," he asked, "are you familiar with Epimethius Hodges' theory on the magical method?"He turned half-around to ask her this, those soulless eyes drilling hers and causing goosebumps to rise unbidden.

She found his presence foreboding and oppressive, but her mind whirled and reminded her that she had heard of The Hodge Theory. The famous theory that the dependence on language was the reason that spells had accompanying incantations. It also covered pronunciation and why spells were easier to perform verbally. She had once tried to explain it to Harry and Ron, but neither had taken much of an interest.

Hermione perked up and stated, "It wasn't well-received for a theory that had been proven correct in several case studies."

To her utter fascination, the Dark Lord was nodding along at her statement and, while climbing another couple of steps, added, "Not many people then – even now – want to know the limits of what magic can do... if there are any." Tom paused and cut his eyes, wondering, "Are you coming or not?"

She stood absentmindedly and started up the steps after him, saying, "Well, it's not exactly _magic_ if everything about it can be explained, is it?" Thoughts of home and other friends were pushed from her mind – academic discussion was valued by so few people in her life that Tom filled the role of peer in a way no one else could.

Hermione did not daydream about her old life once atop the Astronomy tower. The view was breath-taking and the conversation was stimulating. While nothing alike her friends, Tom was something else... something she'd perhaps wanted but not yet found. The afternoon drifted by, spent in heated debates and comfortable silences, and she found herself largely content with life by time for bed.

It did not really occur to her that she had been cheered, possibly on purpose, by a boy known for causing misery.


	14. Fourteen

Hermione hurried down the corridor – she was late for a class.

This would have never happened to her back home, she reflected miserably, but here everything was all thrown off. She'd managed to get herself lost in a castle she'd spent several years learning the ins and outs of. It wasn't technically her fault, of course, rather it was that the paintings weren't _all_ in the same places as they were in her own time... which had caused her to make a few wrong turns.

She'd gotten back on the right track, but somehow ended up near the dungeons.

That was how she'd nearly run into Tom Riddle and another boy conversing in the corridor outside a portion of the wall she _knew_ was the Slytherin common room.

Gasping, she explained, "Oh, sorry, I got turned around."

After a moment, she realized by the look on the boys faces that she'd interrupted something very private. Perhaps even something very dark... Tom looked thunderous, the black pits of his eyes sparkling with more malice than she'd seen them with before, and the other boy was pale and shaken – possibly a Lestrange, if she remembered correctly.

"Hermione," Tom greeted, schooling his features instantly, though he couldn't quite make his tone as breezy as he meant to.

She looked between them, wondering if she should intervene, and asked, "Are you two alright?"

The future Dark Lord smiled at that, as if he were grateful for her concern, and she knew that he was probably wishing she'd bugger off. The other boy was smiling, too, but it was badly forced; he wasn't near as good a liar.

Sweetly, Tom replied, "We're fine, but it's nice of you to ask."

Lestrange added, "Yeah, thanks."

Hermione looked at Tom and narrowed her eyes knowingly. "Right," she drawled skeptically, "I'll just be on my way then. Later, Tom."

She strode off, barely resisting the urge to run or to look back, and wondered when she had developed a taste for provoking the most feared wizard Britain had ever known.


	15. Fifteen

"What do your parents do?"

Hermione jerked her head up.

Tom had not asked her a personal question since right after their duel. Their discussions were purely academic. He had no motivation to go asking her about her parents; it stood to reason that he was motivated by some unpleasant reason that Hermione did not want to contemplate... was he trying to get to know her, if so, then why? Had she appeared too mysterious? Had he decided she were a threat to him in some manner? As far as she knew, Tom did not have any desire to know anyone very well.

"They're both dentists," she said, fearing to lie in case someone tried to verify it. Having encountered the question many times before, she added, "A dentist is someone who fixes teeth."

He did not nod or smile as most would have. Tom only studied her, his head tilting ever so slightly as if working on a puzzle and giving nothing of his thoughts away. After a moment, he acknowledged, "I'm aware of what a dentist is," almost as if unable to bear the idea of being thought ignorant on something he was not. It was human enough that it made her boggle to contemplate.

Hermione hesitated to ask, but found herself trapped by politeness. Finally she returned, "And yours, what do your parents do?" She was well aware of his history and that he would undoubtedly find the topic abhorrent. Surely he must have realized she would ask once he had asked about hers.

"I'm an orphan," Tom sidestepped neatly.

For a long moment, they stared at one another.

She contemplated giving him a sympathetic apology, as she would have done had anyone else revealed the same information to her. Even for a boy who would grow to be evil, being an orphan was a sad thing. Perhaps, if he hadn't been an orphan, then he would have grown up to be a better person.

She wondered if he would think even her sidestepping was a way of being deferential to him about his poor circumstances. Feeling rather uncharitable, given that he was the reason her childhood with her family hadn't been ideal, she quietly said, "Yes, I'd heard a rumor."

Tom didn't seem surprised by her matter-of-fact reply or the way she offered no condolences, merely returning his gaze back to the book in front of him as if the brief conversation had come to a natural conclusion.

Hermione felt uneasy about her own response. Wasn't it very... Slytherin... of her to be unsympathetic to another persons troubles? Was it fair to treat this boy as if he had already committed all the crimes of his future self? Did she want him to think she was uncaring and cold, like him, even when she wasn't?

"I'm sure it's difficult going back after coming here," she belatedly commented, fumbling the words.

His eyebrow raised. "Yes, it is," he agreed.


	16. Sixteen

"Love potions, then," Hermione said one day, in the midst of a deep discussion about what was right and wrong to do to another living being. "No physical harm would be done, the person kept intact, their will bent to yours in a way nothing else could replicate."

Toms eyes narrowed, warmer than usual as they sparked with danger. Though he leaned forward in a manner that suggested he was invested in their conversation, his voice was still smooth and buttery as he declared, "Only a coward would use that – why invest so much time with a potion when fear can accomplish the same feat?"

"Love is nothing _like_ fear," she insisted hotly.

"A force that makes another bend their will to yours," he disagreed.

Hermione, clearly forgetting to whom she spoke, heatedly commented, "You say that like you've never felt love at all."

He didn't skip a beat before saying, with a thin edge of derision in his voice,"I haven't and wouldn't want to. What fool wishes for weakness?" and then seemed to remember his facade, because he added, "Everyone says not to rush into such things. After all, I'm still young."

Having successfully remembered with whom she was arguing with, Hermione paused and scrutinized him.

A lock of his hair had fallen forward into his face. Just a single lock. On anyone else, it would have looked perfectly normal, but on Tom... he held himself rigidly, he spoke with a measured tone, he kept himself under such tight control that even that single lock of hair out of place gave him a slightly unhinged look.

Squirming under his gaze, she found herself failing to give the retort she wanted to make. She longed to tell him that love made you _stronger_ , that he was missing out on something grand, that he would understand if he felt it... but her words failed her when she let herself look back at him.

Seeing his eyes lite with danger and his voice roughen with passion made Hermione feel like a mouse caught by a cat. Her heart begun to race. She felt so in danger that it was all she could do to squeak out a more mild-mannered reply than she wanted to, words she couldn't even remember.

Tom smoothed the lock of hair into place, leaning back and giving her a look of confusion. She decided it looked utterly wrong on his face and nearly missed him asking her, "What is wrong with you today?"

"I- Nothing is. Why do you care?"

She expected him to feign kindness, but instead he said, "I don't like change," and left it at that.


	17. Seventeen

"Why don't your friends ever come study with you?"

Tom looked up from his book slowly. He'd been reading about blood magic and had been in the midst of a particularly enthralling depiction of one of the first blood rituals ever done. In fact, he'd forgotten he had a companion at his table at all.

It took him another moment to focus on the question itself. His mind was reluctant to switch gears.

When he finally processed what she was asking, Tom pointedly looked at her papers, books, and writing supplies all neurotically organized in front of her. He met her inquisitive stare with a slow, condescending raise of an eyebrow.

Hermione reacted by flushing and briefly attempting to smooth her frizzy hair in the most typical, most girly reaction he'd ever gotten out of her. She was so obviously flustered that Tom had to wonder what about the situation was so provoking. The implication that they were friends seemed so simple, so non-threatening... He hadn't even attempted to imply flirtation.

It was as if she knew that friendship was atypical for him.

"I meant your _other_ friends," she clarified.

Tom smiled and silkily said, "They're not like you and I."

He'd intended to fluster her, that time, and was amused by the flash of emotion in her eyes. It was an intriguing combination of defiance, smug pleasure, and confusion. There was nothing simple about her reactions to him. There was so much more to her words when she spoke to him. Tom marveled at these moments where it felt as if she were more familiar with him than she had any right to be.

Hermione composed herself admirably and asked, "Do you think you know me that well?"

Tom did not, in fact, think that he knew her very well. Now that he thought about it, it felt like a tactical disadvantage not to know her better than he did. She displayed a knowledge of him that went beyond his knowledge of her; in a way, he wanted to best her at that game. He always wanted the upper hand.

It did not really occur to him that, no matter _which_ way you looked at it, he had begun to want to get to know someone else beyond his first impressions.


End file.
